


waiting to be struck by lightning

by morningvisions



Category: One Direction
Genre: M/M, Snow, i don't even have anything to say, lots of winter, spontaneous meet-ups?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningvisions/pseuds/morningvisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A list of things Louis had not signed up for when he decided to skip a day at work. It's winter and Harry catches up with Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waiting to be struck by lightning

**Author's Note:**

> This was a quick thing. If you plan on reading it, thank you so much. It really means a lot. Title taken from French Navy by Camera Obscura.  
> Disclaimer: None of this is real. Don't trust random strangers.

It was cold when they met. The memory's all worn out from how many times Louis has rolled it over in his mind, on his tongue and over his eyes and he thinks it's the opposite of an accomplishment how many details he misses, how many more he misses over the days. For example, he's not quite sure what coat he was wearing, whether Harry was wearing his old brown boots or his newer ecru-colored ones. Louis does not remember if the birds were singing (they should have been); he does not remember how the clouds painted the sky, whether they were splattered across it at all. He vaguely remembers a brown-haired girl sitting on the bench under the pine tree, a decaying duffle coat shrouding her. He doesn't remember which pocket he had his phone in or if he'd had a cuppa at work or not. He doesn't remember the smell of winter. He remembers that it was cruelly, intensely, unfairly cold.

Instead of lunch and cigarette with Zayn, Louis had taken to exiting his office (even though it would be the third time this month) and walking down the icy street, trying very hard not to slip. He wound up in a square surrounded by tall, red buildings. In summer, a tiny burger place opened and it was frequented by everyone in Louis' office. That day, Louis had decided that it would be unwise to limit himself to a tiny cubicle when the world was so bright outside the window, everything looking like a movie.

There was snow everywhere and Louis wasn't much for nature and such, but anyone would admit that it was downright lovely, and yeah, Louis had refused to be stationed in that horrible office for three more hours.

As he looked around the square for a place to sit without ending up with snow in his trousers, he helpfully supplied himself with what his mum would say if she saw him. "It's not school anymore. I love you and it _is_ quite lovely, isn't it? But you need to act like an adult—" and maybe that wasn't his mum. Speeches like this would be quite uncharacteristic coming from her. Maybe, it was Liam.

Louis sat one bench away from a brunette girl with a cup of something—something probably warm—in her hands. He grimaced at how this seemed like something he would never really do. Sitting idly on a frozen bench in a deserted square with his hands fisted in his pockets, seemed like something he would call bullshit on if any of his friends were to do it. He'd smirk at them, saying, "next thing you know, he's gone on a self-exploring journey to Russia. It's quite cold there, mate."

Louis notes how his lips are numb, how his tongue rests heavy in his mouth and how he probably looks like a corpse, a good-looking one. Louis had put extra effort in his hair that day, and he'd gotten a close shave as well. It was snowy and the sunlight was soaking the day softly and it would have been nice, but he knew he wouldn't be getting laid; thinking of it now, he probably could have put the useless five minutes into cleaning up the tea he watched washing the table and Zayn's left leg after delicately nudged by Louis. ("Thanks," Zayn had said calmly after Louis let out a very manly scream.)

It was cold, Louis was so, so cold and he considered walking back to work while he still could, making up some excuse and doing what he was supposed to do as an adult. He considered walking home and watching the first season of Breaking Bad until he fell asleep. He thought about driving all the way to Donny, even, maybe surprising his sister. But his bum was just now getting used to the frigid char and _oh_ , a boy, a man, whatever, was walking over to the bench and even though a polka-dotted scarf was covering his nose and mouth, Louis made the executive decision that the boy was beautiful. The boy stood over Louis and Louis allowed himself a quick glance, attempting to take in all he could The man/boy was tall and fit. His hair was falling down to his shoulder in loose curls and his nose was adorable pink and Louis wished he could make out the color of his eyes. The man/boy paused in front of Louis, looking down with what looked like a big smile peeping out of his scarf.

"Could I sit here?" he said, voice faint but reasonably and unexpectedly deep. It wasn't that he had childish features, not at all. It was just a voice unexpected from such a face, though not unpleasant at all. Anyway, Louis couldn't have thought of a more suitable voice. He reckoned that the boy sounded good. Louis tried not to look anymore. It was creepy and impolite. He stared straight ahead, looking suddenly interested in a tree that was recently cut down.

"'M Harry," the boy said, once he'd settled down. He looked like was awkwardly trying to position himself so that he would be in the least possible contact with the bench.

"Louis," Louis said. He was surprised by how the cold had affected his voice and he hoped his looks would make up for the fact that he sounded like a sick pigeon.

"I live right there," said Harry, demanding Louis' full attention, pointing at one of the buildings to their left. Louis was happy that he now could freely look at him without sending off bad vibes. The scarf had fallen and he had the nicest set of lips and this was indistinctly inappropriate, so Louis retorted to looking at the red brick building instead.

"That's—you've got a nice view, then," Louis says, unsure. Harry was playing with his ungloved fingers and looking at his home, as if he'd never seen it before. Maybe, maybe he was one of those poems gone mad, one of those artists. It fit the look.

"You know, I was—you look quite cold. I feel colder than I already am looking at you and—would you like to come inside for tea?" Harry's eyes showed no sign of malign and his mouth was quirking upwards, in an almost hopeful gesture. He looked good-natured. But this was bizarre and Louis was big-mouthed and loud, but now he was cold and he didn't know what to say. He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh shit," Harry said. "Okay. This is probably very weird. I'm Harry Styles, I study business and I have Yorkshire tea and earl grey and I would very much like to have you over for tea, as you look quite cold. And it's okay if you want to say no but I promise that I am not a murderer, you can ask my neighbour. And I won't poison your tea." For some reason, his speech felt heart-warming and calming, and his face was—his face was just maybe one of the most beautiful thing Louis had seen in the past week (month) even though Louis wasn't much for compliments. Also, Louis loved him some Yorkshire tea.

"I'm Louis," he started. "I work in an office; it's nice to meet you and do you—you know, I love tea, I'm from South Yorkshire, so I love Yorkshire tea, but this seems like exactly what my mum advised me against when I was five." Harry smiled again. He's full of smiles, he is.

"My window, as you can see, is open so if you scream other people will hear and. And you don't have to, obviously. It's—I'm sorry. I'm just a stranger but."

"Why would you leave the window open?" Louis asked quizzically. He made a mental note to google how to have his lips look like Harry's when it's two degrees.

"My roommate sets the temperature high up and I don't like the heat." And that was it, really. The boy truly did look good-natured, and Louis would die trying to look good enough drinking tea so that the boy would put his lips on his and—whoa, okay. Perhaps there were better places for thoughts like this. Louis gets up. His bum was uncomfortably numb. He flexes his leg muscles.

"Okay, young Harold. I hope I won't get kidnapped but, tea's good," he said. Harry smiled brightly.

"It's just Harry, actually."

"No, it's Harold." Louis walked ahead. Hopefully, he will appear endearing enough that this potential axe murderer won't rip off his head after all. He'll hang around for tea and then he'll be on his way. He'll be out as soon as he's in and the tea would warm his throat as he desperately looked for a cab. It was hard to open the door because snow had piled up; dirty and a dull grey because everyone had stepped on it but had not thought to get it out of the way. Harry tries to brush some off down the stares with his boots.

"It smells bad in the hallways," Harry warned Louis as they entered and the temperature dramatically shot up. Although not warm, it seemed to sweat Louis up and Harry took his scarf up once and for all. The hallways smelled like rain and burnt bread. Harry kept swiveling back at Louis as they climbed the stairs, almost nervously, and each time Louis made sure to breathe in his features. The small lamps did not do much and most of Harry's face was obscured in shadows, but he was a wonder to look at. Louis could stay for two cups (unless Harry threw him out, or murdered him, the likes).

Harry's apartment door is similar to the rest, rufous and three kicks away from being broken open.

"The door looks unsafe," Louis commented as Harry rolled his key in again.

"I noticed," Harry explained. "Figured no one would try to steal anything from anyone here." He chuckled and Louis grinned at him—this lovely boy has dimples—and took a moment to think about his next remark.

"You're a future businessman," he said. "This place is unbecoming at best." Harry took no offense and chuckled again. Louis looked at Harry's hands this time, saw the knuckles red and the nails manicured. He would like these fingers with many rings on it somewhere inside him; maybe even in his mouth, on his tongue—and that was hopefully as inappropriate as he would get about someone who'd invited him in for tea.

Harry's place is neat even though it looks like it's holding too many things for its space. There are books and a stack of films, there is a salmon-coloured sofa in poor condition in front of the tv and a coffee table with two mugs in front of it. The walls are decorated by unlit christmas lights even though it's far past christmas and as Harry wordlessly disappeared into the kitchen, Louis thought this place fitted what he'd seen of this almost-stranger completely. He settled down on the sofa and hoped it doesn't rip open in contact. There was a hushed breeze coming in from the kitchen but it was warmer anyway. Louis unbuttoned his coat, revealing a ridiculous sweater gifted to him by his sisters. Louis likes to proud himself in being a family man, even though his visits are narrowed down to Christmas, thanks to his respectable boss. He heard Harry humming a giddy melody to himself in the kitchen and he looked at his knees, smiling.He regained his composure as Harry padded back into the living room with two cups in his hands, steam dancing out of both.

"Do you take it with milk?" he asked hurriedly and gave Louis a worried look, as if he'd forgotten to bring his ring to a proposal—terrible metaphor, Louis realized.

"Plain is good, mate. Thank you." Harry's face eased back to his usual stance—his lips at the edge of a smile—and Louis couldn't help it.

"You have them cute dimples," he said informatively causing Harry's face to break out into a shining smile, dimples and all again and _God_ , yes, this is such a nice face to look at. This is such a nice person. How could someone looking like that murder Louis?

Harry circles the sofa and plopped down next to Louis, placing the cups on the table. He had to curl his legs up not to hit the coffee table while Louis' legs were within an inch of it which. Okay. Fine. As Louis eyed his tea, the walls, the stack of films (he recognizes the one on the top), he was overcome by an urge to knock his knee against Harry. So he did it. It's a nice knee, Harry's.

"Please don't tell me you work in that awful, dark building down the road," Harry said, looking at Louis straight in the eyes. Louis can make out his eye color now, emerald green. Like everything else of his, he has a painfully nice pair of eyes. Not that it matters.

"It's dreadful," Louis said with a dramatic, exasperated sigh. "But it pays well and the boss isn't a giant dickhead." Harry hummed.

"I want to try to get a job there, maybe a small gig. Wanna know office hours, y'know. It's close."

"It's shit and not educating at all. Boring. Even the coffee is too dark," Louis said helpfully. Harry hummed again. It seems to be a habit of his.

"I would be paying a visit anyway. Which means we'd meet whether or not I'd spotted you sitting on that bench." At this, Louis glimpsed off at Harry and wondered if Harry's hinting at some basic soulmate shit. Harry's smile was still gentle and harmless, making the winter breeze unnoticeable; the warmth reaching out to Louis under his coat.

"Perhaps," Louis said as he picks up his cup and thinks of ten different, more eloquent replies he could have given. The cup warmed his fingers, which always warm up last even after he's somewhere not-so-cd. The cup warmed up his fingers until it was burning them. Louis took a sip. Next to him, Harry picked up his own cup thoughtfully. The tea was great. The familiarity of the liquid cascading down his throat was soothing and Harry seemed to be meeting with a similar feeling.

"Thank you for this, mate. How old are you?" Louis asked carelessly. It was the tea speaking, obviously. The heat had braved him; had made him seem a bit more like himself.

"You're welcome. I'm 21. My birthday was a couple weeks ago, actually," Harry said, not appearing weirded out by the sudden question. "How old are you?"

"Old," Louis said. "23."

Harry frowned, nearing his cup to his lips again. "23 is not old. Besides, you don't look it."

"It's cause I've shaved, you see," Louis said. He was not the same man he was when he was nineteen and he needed people—Harry—to know that. "I'm quite manly and old and respectable with facial hair, mind you."

"I'm not much for facial hair," Harry said, putting the cup back on the table. A fast tea-drinker. Louis noted that down. "I mean, not on me," he continued. "Like, I'm sure you look wonderful with facial hair. It doesn't suit me." Louis hoped that that was Harry's attempt at a flirty compliment. Maybe if he hoped enough, Harry would start flirting, would start having the thoughts Louis was having about Louis. It made sense, too. Zayn always told Louis that the positive energy emitting from a single person can change the course of events. Louis hoped Harry would touch him, would maybe put his lips on Louis'. A cuddle would do, at this age. They could watch one of those movies. Yes. These were all likely scenarios if Louis weren't to fuck off right after he finished his tea.

"You'd look lovely with any kind and any length of hair," Louis said and oh. There went his attempt at being casual. Harry, though, lit up, eyes set on Louis. Louis could feel Harry studying his features. Louis could feel Harry's look swimming across his face. He sincerely hoped, _wished_ his hands were burning up not because of how Harry was looking at him, but because of the cuppa.

"Thank you," Harry said finally. It freaked Louis out how he'd thought the name _Harry_ so many times in the past couple of minutes, it was beginning to sound familiar as it echoed across his mind, like it was an everyday thing for that name to cross his mind.

"You know about this philosophical stance on possibilities?" Harry said, eyes set on Louis, blunt and heedless. "Everything that can happen, will happen occasionally. I mean it's a fact that they put into this heavy-looking philosophy, but that is it, isn't it? Everything that can happen, will happen. We can make things that can happen, happen." He paused, looking at Louis expectantly.

Admittedly, Louis didn't have the slightest clue what Harry was getting at. He planned to watch Harry arrive at his point. Louis had better things to do, such as dwelling on the fact that his friendly knee-nudge had now turned into their knees positively touching.

"I practiced this," Harry warned Louis. Louis did not know whether to smile at this or not. Harry kept going, "Everything that can happen will happen if we make it happen. And something that /can/ happen, right now—something that I can do is, I can kiss you. I can kiss you because that's something that can happen and I would very much like to make it happen; if you're okay with that, obviously." Louis looked up at Harry who was gazing at Louis, tense. Louis did not like this person to be tense. He looked so much better with that giant smile.

"I suppose there are worse things that could happen than a pretty boy kissing you, so." "Uh,"

Harry's brows furrowed into two straight lines. "Pretty sure you're the pretty boy here." Harry got closer, and closer until his features were nothing but a blur of different shades of pink and red, he got close until everything felt hazy, vehement and scorching and then he dipped down to kiss Louis. Louis thought, there were definitely worse things that could happen. Their mouths shifted and moved against each other, weightless and softly. There were worse things that could have happened. Louis could have wound up without these hands cupping his face, traveling down to his shoulder, pressing Louis' ugly sweater to his chest as they lightly veered across Louis, settling finally, on his wrists. Louis could have wound up without the smell of coconut and an unrecognizable cologne immersing him. Could have been worse.

Louis is not sure for how long they kiss, but when they part, Louis made sure to keep Harry very close to him.

"Do you pull this on everyone?" Louis asked, breathlessly. He wondered whether he could mindlessly touch Harry's hair.

"Just the insanely pretty ones," Harry said, looking up at Louis through his lashes.

"You've got nice eyes."

"Thank you." Louis gingerly leaned against Harry. "Can I touch your hair?" Harry grinned at him and pulled him closer.

"You're beautiful," Harry commented. It was Louis' turn to grin. "Yes. Touch my hair, please. Do you want to watch a film? I've got a lot."

"I suppose," Louis said, hand already feeling Harry's hair. "There are worse things to do."

They watched a movie of Harry's choice—an indie release that Louis had heard nothing about, but looked promising—both of them sprawled across the sofa that was tougher than it looked (at one point, a long while after that day, they tried to sell it; they were elated when no one bought it.)

Time passed nimbly, except for the times Harry went to get snacks and Louis had to actually watch the movie and Louis did not remember at which point he fell asleep, head bent awkwardly and hands curled around Harry's arm. (Until then, Louis had not been acquainted with that side of himself. He did not know that he would ever think it sane to be so physically close to a person that he'd had tea with. The thing was, that whole thing was drastically different from a pick-up at the club. It was different from dirtily grinding against a taller guy in a club. Louis had never known the odds, the likes of such thing happening.)

Louis woke up to his neck hurting, the clock showing 8:19 pm and a heavy weight toppled on him. It took him a bit to comprehend the surroundings.

Zayn was worried and he has work to do. Harry looked more peaceful asleep as he did when awake, which, fuck, how was that possible? As Louis collects his coat and his phone—both on that pink sofa—he thought whether that will turn out just like the movies. Whether that, whatever it was, would fade out into a small memory he'd replay whenever bored or lonely. He snickered at that thought as he had his best attempt at writing his number (with a smiley face next to it) on a grocery receipt he'd fished out of his pocket. He estimated it to be mostly readable, even though it was pretty dark. He put the number on the coffee table, placed his pen on top of it so that in remote circumstances, it wouldn't fly away. He'd forgotten to tell Harry that he was very beautiful (Louis wasn't much for compliments) but he would do it, some day.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed. Kudos and comments would be super appreciated. Thanks for reading.


End file.
